


Make of Our Hands

by deanlosechester



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-04
Updated: 2012-12-04
Packaged: 2017-11-20 07:43:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/582958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deanlosechester/pseuds/deanlosechester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’d let his hair grow out during the summer, but they’d used it against him. It was silly, he thought, but it worked. It was a liability. They’d grabbed it, yanked at it, ripped it out of his skull as he screamed and bled. Held his head back as they dragged their claws along his face and neck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make of Our Hands

**Author's Note:**

> First fic to be posted on AO3. It's more of a ficlet than a full-fledged fic, inspired from a conversation I had with my friend Heathyr about Stiles shaving his hair due to a trauma.

After three months of tension, anger, fighting, and psychological warfare, the Alpha Pack was finally gone.

But Stiles was still shaken, still terrified at even the sound of a twig breaking on the ground. Still so scared that he was going to turn around and there they’d be: claws out, eyes flashing red, gripping Stiles by his hair to drag him away from his father, his pack, and safety. He’d let his hair grow out during the summer, but they’d used it against him. It was silly, he thought, but it worked. It was a liability. They’d grabbed it, yanked at it, ripped it out of his skull as he screamed and bled. Held his head back as they dragged their claws along his face and neck. Immobilized him. Compromised him.

Terrified him.

He remembered Derek and the others bursting through the door of the warehouse he’d been kept in. He remembered one of the Alphas smiling as she knelt behind Stiles and pulled at his hair again, using it to tilt his head to the side so she could mouth his neck. He remembered a whimper, a whisper of _please_ that he didn’t think he’d ever admit had left his lips. He remembered a blow to his head that knocked him out for what seemed like days.

He didn’t remember being in the Camaro going home after the fight, or Derek carrying him up to his own room at the Hale house. He remembered waking up to find Scott curled into a ball in the big chair next to the bed.

With his father out of town on a consult, Stiles didn’t have to lie to him about why he hadn’t been home in two days, but there were moments when he wished he could have used his father as an excuse to leave. He didn’t want to talk to Scott or the others about what had happened just yet, but they kept pushing him. Derek more than the rest. It was like something in Derek couldn’t be still, couldn’t relax, until he knew exactly what Stiles had gone through in that warehouse that night.

But Stiles just wasn’t ready.

Three days had passed since the Incident when Stiles woke up from the worst nightmare he’d had since his mother died. His heart was pounding, his chest was heaving, and god dammit he couldn’t _breathe_. He kept wiping and pressing at his eyes, but the images of bloody and clawed hands gripping his hair and ripping, _pulling_ , wouldn’t go away.

He stumbled into the bathroom and stared at his reflection. His eyes were red and puffy, his mouth wide open as he gasped in shaky breaths. His hair—his _hair_ —was sticking up every which way, and looking at it made him sick. He couldn’t take it anymore. Running to the room and rifling through his bag, he pulled out the electric shaver he’d hastily packed a few days earlier. Returning to the bathroom, he plugged it in, reaching up to begin shearing his hair.

He only got one long stripe shaved when his hands started shaking so badly he couldn’t hold the razor anymore. He dropped it onto the counter and watched it vibrate along the marble, eventually reaching out and switching the “off” button to stop the noise. He gripped the countertop until his hands hurt and his knuckles turned white, leaning his forehead down and trying to calm his nerves.

He didn’t look up when Derek entered the bathroom, and heard more than felt him reach around to take the razor in his hands. He heard the buzz of the razor as it clicked on, and felt Derek’s calloused hands reach around to take his head and tilt it up so he could begin shaving it for him.

He flinched at first, afraid that Derek would yank his hair back the way the Alphas had, but Derek was gentle the way he always seemed to be around Stiles now, like he was made of glass and if he gripped him too tightly he’d break. He wanted to tilt his head back, but chose instead to stare at himself in the mirror and watch as his hair fell down his shoulders and onto the counter and floor. He wanted to see this; wanted to see what had been done washed away.

Derek finished shaving his head, but he still couldn’t breathe right. There was something in the things Derek wasn’t saying that took the breath out of him, something in the way Derek stared solemnly at him in the mirror that made his stomach turn. When he opened his mouth to speak—whether to thank him or tell him to go away, he wasn’t sure—a sob escaped him and his vision blurred. His hands shot out to the counter again and he felt Derek’s arms wrap around him, holding him up, bracing him back against his chest like a vice. Telling him he was safe.

He cried for three minutes and forty-nine seconds before he calmed down and turned to face Derek.

He looked wrecked. Stiles was no werewolf, but he could practically smell the sadness and worry radiating from Derek in waves and knew it was mostly his fault.

_No_ , Inner Stiles said. _Not your fault. Their fault._

His thoughts were interrupted as Derek buried his nose in Stiles’ neck, breathing in deeply. “Every time I breathe, they’re all I can smell,” Derek whispered, anger making his voice shake. “You—you’re pack, you’re—” Derek shook himself, shook the word out of his mind before continuing. “They marked you and I _hate it_.”

Stiles gulped, looking at Derek in the bathroom mirror and whispering, “I told them to stop and they wouldn’t. I told them no and they kept going.”

Derek froze, hands gripping Stiles’ arms so tightly he knew there would be bruises the next day, and growled. He let his fangs extend, barely grazing them across Stiles’ neck, and glared up at Stiles’ reflection with red eyes. “You,” Derek growled, “belong to no one but this pack. You belong to no one else but me.” Something in Stiles settled as Derek added, “No one will ever touch you again.”

They didn’t.


End file.
